CHAPTER 10
Loneliness was an occupational hazard for a long-distance truck driver, but after thirty-five years, Roger was used to it.
While driving, waiting around, or on statutory rest-ups, you would find things to occupy your mind. Roger would read books or listen to news, discussions, plays, and music on the radio. He’d listen to his collection of classical music, and sometimes he’d just drive, sitting there thinking but concentrating and watching the world pass by.
Roger was, by his very nature, a private and self-sufficient man, more than happy with his own company but just as comfortable in the company of others if their lives crossed. But the last twenty-four hours had affected him in an unusual way.
Forced by helplessness of his car breaking down and discovering what was in that parcel, Kevin had unwound from the cold, lost, and nervous teenager he’d found standing, waving him down in the middle of a snowy mountain road. Kevin had put his trust in Roger.
During the drive south from Scotland, they’d stopped at a service station near Carlisle, and feeling hungry, he asked Kevin if he’d like to share one of his ready-made fish pies.
Kevin had politely declined, but as Roger tucked into the pie, Kevin sat reading the Grapes of Wrath and was watching him. Why? Roger wondered. What was he thinking? Was Kevin trying to work him out, just as he’d been trying to understand Kevin?
Was it his appearance? Roger wondered. His way of talking? His habit of removing the woolly beanie to scratch his head every few minutes? Probably. Roger knew it was a habit. What little hair that remained was fine and grey, but it matched his eyebrows. He’d often remove his glasses to wipe them on the tail of his shirt that always hung outside his beige trousers. His trouser bottoms were always tucked into thick grey socks inside shiny black army boots.
It was probably a generational thing, but Kevin was watching the ways and habits of a man old enough to be his grandfather. Had Kevin ever talked at length, sensibly and constructively, man to man, or even been in the company of an older man in his life before? Somehow, from what he could tell, Roger doubted it.
He remembered talking to Kevin about his car.
“It’s not roadworthy,” he said. “And why follow instructions on where you’re going from a machine? It’s like a sheep following a farmer with a handful of straw. And who on God’s earth pays for a round trip of seven hundred miles to pick up a small parcel, young man? Come on. Tell Uncle Roger. Where did you start out from? I’m interested because we clearly share a common interest in transport. It might be the only interest, but it’s better than nothing.”
That was it. Roger decided. He’d been talking to Kevin like a father might talk to his teenage son, taking the mickey, pulling his leg, provoking a response. But all was done kindly enough to induce a nervous smile and a sense that no harm was meant and that there were no hidden threats.
And Kevin had responded. He’d explained where he lived. “What area of the city is that, Kevin? Sorry to ask, but you’ll find Uncle Roger’s a walking, talking atlas, far better than Google. Google’s only been in business a short while. Uncle Roger’s been around for sixty-five years.” Then he added, “Have you got a girlfriend, Kevin?”
“I did once.”
“What happened?”
“She dumped me.”
“Oh, dear me. What a shame. Maybe she’d have offered some good advice on the future of the transport industry.”
“I doubt it. She worked in KFC on Midland Road”
“Be thankful for being dumped then Kevin.”
It was a simple man-to-man dialogue that both of them knew was perfectly harmless.
As he scraped the remains of his fish pie, he looked at Kevin, but Kevin looked away. Roger smiled to himself, started the engine, and moved off again, back onto the motorway.
“So,” he said after five minutes, “when we arrive, I’ll drop you at the end of Park Road with your freshly rewrapped parcel. What you do then is your decision. You can either blow a whistle into Khan’s ear to wake him up in order to take delivery of his precious package or leave it until the morning. What do you think?”
Kevin put the book down and sighed. “I was hoping you might stick around for a while, Roger. Maybe—”
“Maybe what, Kevin? What can I do? You’re lucky Hamish decided to do nothing, or you might be languishing in a Scottish prison awaiting trial by now.”
“I know. I’m very grateful.”
“So what now? Everything returns to normal? Status quo? More halal butchery and selling more Bangladeshi pickled gourami fish and more deliveries for Mr. Khan? And who’s going to pay for your car to be fixed? Might that Mr. Khan feel you deserve some decent expenses and reimbursement of costs.”
Roger desperately hoped Kevin would not say he didn’t know.
“Can you stick around, Roger? You know. For just a few days?”
It was Roger’s turn to sigh. “If Hamish fixes your car,” he said, “you’ll need to pay him. It’s the way things work, Kevin. How’ll you do that? If Khan’s as much of a bastard as you claim, how’ll you do that?”
Kevin didn’t answer but stared out of the side window, so Roger continued, “Let’s ignore whatever Khan’s up to for a moment, shall we? How does he normally pay you for deliveries?”
“If it’s not too far, he pays bus fare and maybe ten quid.”
“Bus fare?” Roger yelled across the short gap that separated them. “What sort of courier are you, Kevin? And what sort of guy treats people like that? I know. Don’t tell me. A sodding great bastard.”
Kevin shrugged.
“And who else do you deliver to? And where? Do you ever go to Pakistan with a bag of fake passports for sale on the streets of Karachi?” Roger’s humour was lost.
“I sometimes go to Birmingham or Swindon, but it’s mostly local,” Kevin said.
“Anyone in particular?”
“Usually, only as far as Lansdowne Road.”
“Lansdowne Road? Is that near the old Mill Lane Industrial Estate? The home of yet another Khan?”
“No, this man’s old.”
“Are there no old Khans, Kevin? Don’t Khans grow old like normal people? Is he black, brown, white, or yellow?”
“White and grey. His name’s Mr. Greg.”
“Is Mr. Greg English?”
“I don’t know.”
Roger looked across at Kevin. “Is there much drug dealing in your area these days, Kevin?”
“Sure. Like everywhere, I suppose.”
“You do drugs?”
“I can’t afford it.”
“I thought people stole if they couldn’t afford it.”
“I’m not that desperate, OK?”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Does Mr. Greg do drugs?”
“He doesn’t look the sort.”
“And what does a drug dealer look like?”
“Young. Sometimes very young.”
“So we’re dismissing Greg as a drug dealer because he’s far too old. So what does Greg do? What’s his connection to bastard Khan?”
“Search me.”
“He searches you?”
“I deliver packages, OK? Then I go away. I don’t ask. Not my business.”
“Do you never ever ask questions, Kevin?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is Greg a partner in Khan’s fake tourism business?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Mr. Khan a pillar of the local Moslem community?”
“What pillar?” Kevin snapped. He was now getting annoyed.
Good, thought Roger. There was nothing like deliberate provocation. “I mean, does he command great respect amongst the locals?”
Another short pause. Kevin was thinking about that one. “Not by me. I think some are nervous of him.”
“Well, we know he intimidates you and your mother, don’t we? Doesn’t Park Road have a community leader who keeps an eye on things? Makes sure things tick along nicely and everyone gets along hunky dory?”
“There’s a councillor, Mohammed Basra. Is that who you mean?”
“How do I know, Kevin? I don’t live there. Is he a city councillor? Elected?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Does Mr. Khan know Councillor Basra?”
“Yes. He’s often there. With others.”
“Where is there? Be precise. He’s often where?”
“At the shop. At Faisal World Travel.”
“And you live above the shop.”
“Yeh.”
“But you’re never invited to the party.”
“I’m told to leave when they hold meetings.”
“That’s not very friendly. Where do you go?”
“KFC or the Silver Bullet.”
“And your opinion of Mr. Khan is still that he’s an effing bastard, am I right? You’ve not changed your mind in the last few hours?”
“He’s exactly how you just described him—a sodding great bastard.”
“Mind your language, Kevin. But I’m so pleased to have that reconfirmed because I hate bastards. It helps me make decisions. In that case, I’ll leave Madge in a truck park somewhere and stick around for a couple of days. How’s that, Kevin?”
Kevin turned, smiled, and nodded. “Thanks, Roger.”